As both an insider and outsider to the US and Colombia, cultural norms have long been a source of material for my scripts. When I travel to Colombia, my mother’s home country, on an ordinary errand, I notice a shopkeeper calling me “my love” and spouses calling one another “my life;” the fast-forward jerks of my uncle’s movements and the way two bodies cup as they dance salsa, differently on this part of the Caribbean coast than anywhere else in the world. In rural Tennessee—where I was partially raised—certain southerners descant in buttery slow motion while others’ nasal twangs crack like a stick. Their interest in camouflage and rifles is impenetrable to me, obscene—this interest in hunting hidden. The Super Walmart with its disjointed zombies and the banality of the strip.